


that one where sam tells dean he's known all along

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Gender or Sex Swap, Genderbending, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Language, Lies, M/M, Magic, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Relationship Negotiation, Trans Sam, Transformation, Trust Issues, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 07:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6557068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Please, Dean," Sam says. He sounds tired. "Don't lie to me, okay? I know. I've known for a long time."</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where sam tells dean he's known all along

Dean runs out of the elixir right after Memorial Day. He pours the last couple drops into Sam's morning coffee, comes back from the breakfast run to find Sam curled up on the bed, facing the door with her arms around her stomach, fledgling pain lines lurking at the corners of her eyes and lips. 

"Hey," he says, sitting next to her, rubbing one hand up and down the curve of her spine. She's wearing a pair of Dean's sweats, big on her hips and a little long, as well as one of her male hoodies; it practically swamps her, slides off one shoulder enough to show that she's not wearing anything underneath -- shirt or camisole or bra. "You okay?" 

Sam groans, rolls over and blinks up at Dean, yawns. "Fine," she says, "if you call getting into the shower with a dick and getting out with a fucking cunt 'okay.'" 

Dean bites back a wince; Sam's usually not this cranky when she changes. Then again, Sam hasn't really been himself lately: he's sleeping restlessly when he sleeps at all, sometimes he flinches away from Dean's casual touches, sometimes the Impala's filled by an uncomfortable silence for miles upon miles. If Dean didn't know better, he'd think -- but no. If there was anything Sam had to say to Dean, Sam would. 

"Anything I can get for you?" She looks at him, raises an eyebrow, and it takes Dean a minute but he gets it, says, "Ah. Well. Anything beside _that_?" 

Sam lets out a breath, shoves her face in Dean's thigh, mumbles something too quietly for Dean to hear. He strokes her hair, waits instead of asking -- he's not supposed to have heard what she said, he thinks. "Guess I should get up and get moving, huh," Sam finally says, head turned enough to look up at Dean. "Daylight's wasting and all that." 

"If you don't wanna, we don't have to," Dean tells her. "Not much left on the case to finish up. I can handle things if you need to sleep it off or take a bath or whatever." 

"Isn't it strange," Sam says, slowly, eyes searching Dean's, "that this so conveniently happens when there's not much left to do. Or when we've just finished something or when we're between jobs. And in so many places, too. You'd think that your local, garden-variety witch would come up with something new every once in awhile -- at least a new target." 

Dean laughs, hopes the noise doesn't sound as nervous as he feels. "Yeah," Dean says. "Guess we probably should've looked into that before now, huh. Coincidence has never been a thing for us."

Sam holds his eyes, finally sets her head back down on Dean's thigh. "Looked into it," Sam says, and she sounds quiet and disappointed and a little bit broken-hearted. "Right."

//

It takes Dean five months to find another dose of the elixir, five months of tracking down every witch and supplier he can, five months of the shadiest web sites and forums he's ever been on, five months of worrying that he's not going to be able to find something again, five months of trying to hide his search from one of the most observant people Dean's ever met. 

He does, though -- there's something to be said for dogged Winchester persistence -- and while Sam's out doing research on a case, Dean stops by the witch's house, picks up the elixir, and this time leaves the witch alive in case he needs her again. Sam's supposed to be at the library for a few more hours so Dean doesn't think twice about going back to the motel room and carrying the vial in his hands, twirling it between his fingers. He opens the door, stops mid-step when he sees Sam sitting on the bed, waiting for him. 

"Uh," Dean says. "Aren't you -- I thought -- didn't you say you'd be at the library a little longer?" 

"Yeah," Sam says. "Sure did. But give me a little credit, here, Dean; I'm not as stupid as you think I am. That it?" and he nods at the tiny little glass vial in Dean's left hand. 

Dean looks at his hand, back at Sam, asks, "That what?" and gives off a nervous laugh. "I mean, I never wanted to tell you, Sammy, but we are getting a little older and I just can't -- no man ever wants to admit that he's having, _y'know_ , problems." 

Sam stands up, goes to Dean, pulls the door closed behind Dean and then holds out his hand. Dean opens his mouth to argue, closes it at the look in Sam's eyes. He hands over the vial, expects to see Sam drop it, crush it under his feet, or throw it against the wall, something -- he does not expect Sam to go back to the bed, sit down, vial held like something precious in his hands, those giant hands with such long, elegant fingers and their longer-than-average-for-a-guy nails shimmering a dark midnight-blue. 

"Please, Dean," Sam says. He sounds tired. "Don't lie to me, okay? I know. I've known for a long time. Why do you think I kept the clothes after the first three times it happened?" Dean doesn't really know what to say. "And I -- I've given you so many chances to say something," Sam goes on. "I thought you'd -- at first, fine, a secret, but you had to know, part of you had to, that I wasn't just gonna let it slide." 

"Sam, I," Dean says, trails off because there aren't words to make up for the bruised look written all over Sam's face. He's played this conversation out a million times in his head, has never found the right words to get Sam, _his_ Sam, to forgive him, to keep him, to stay with him. "I guess I -- I know it was a dick move, really, I do, but you liked it better. Being female, I mean, and you can't lie about that, you told me yourself that you fit better, that you finally felt like you. I couldn't -- I just want you to be happy, Sam." 

Sam lets out a deep breath. "You couldn't just ask me what would make me happy?" he asks, quiet. "Dean, you've been playing god with me. I know I don't exactly have the best track record when it comes to making decisions but didn't you stop to think I deserved to make the choice about this myself? Didn't you think," and his voice gets quieter, more sad, "that you could trust me to decide about _this_ , at the very least?" 

Dean feels like the lowest of low; he steps backwards, hits the closed door, feels his chest go tight. He'd never -- "I never thought of it like that," he says. 

"I know," Sam says, "and that's why I'm still here." 

Hearing that really does make Dean choke for breath this time. Sam would have left him over this, could have left him, probably _should_ have, and Dean's imagined every single slap and door slam and unanswered call, lived in fear of them, all because he's -- well, he's been saying for a few years now that he doesn't trust Sam, not with his own body, not with his own mind or wants or desires. He's been telling Sam that he doesn't think Sam deserves to be in control of his own person, and if there's one thing Sam's always been manically possessive of -- and with good reason -- it's his bodily autonomy. 

Sam gives Dean time to process that before he says, "Besides, if you'd asked, I would've told you that this shit tastes fucking awful when you mix it with coffee. It's not so bad with liquor but if you ever spike my coffee with anything that isn't sugar or alcohol again, I'm going to cut your fucking balls off while you're sleeping." 

Dean blanches at the threat. "Noted," he says. "Um. So." 

"So, I know you did it for me," Sam says, "and you might be an idiot but you weren't wrong." He opens the vial, dabs out three drops onto the back of his hand and then licks his skin dry. 

It's the first time Dean's ever seen the change happen and it looks -- Sam has just enough time to put the stopper back in the vial before he falls off the bed, convulsing. It looks as if the change is tearing Sam to pieces, like it's stolen all of Sam's breath except for the thinnest shreds he's using to give out little hitched whines of agony, body jerking out of his control. 

When it's done, Sam's on her knees, hands shaped like claws with nails digging into the carpet, panting for breath as she sniffs back tears and wipes the thinnest line of blood from under her nose. 

"I didn't know it was like that," Dean murmurs, horrified at what he's just seen. Now that he's thinking about it, Dean doesn't know how he thought the change would happen. It usually wears off so much cleaner, easier, just a little shuddering and shivering and then Sam's six inches taller and has his dick again. Dean never thought the initial change would be any different. "Jesus, Sam, I swear, I didn't know." 

Sam holds out a hand; Dean takes it instantly and pulls her up. She wavers on her feet and leans into Dean like he's the only thing that could ever keep her standing. "It's a good thing I love you," she says, "because you're such a goddamned fucking moron sometimes. How long will this last?" 

Dean's got his arms wrapped around her, her face mapping out its own space in his neck, and he's kind of shocked. They've never said those three words outside of sex, only give breath to them when they're in the heat of the moment or under a truth hex, and she's just said 'I love you' like it's nothing -- no, like it's everything, so obvious, so much a part of her, woven into every fibre of her being, that she shouldn't need to say it at all because it's so clear to see.

And it is, too, because she's known almost this whole time and she's never called him on it. She's gone through this pain more times that Dean can remember, at this point, and she's never confronted him. She's let him keep doing this to her and she's never left.

"Three days," he says, weakly. "One day for every drop." 

All that pain, and for three days of something Sam might not even want. 

"I think," Sam starts, pauses. She swallows and Dean can feel her heart racing hummingbird-fast. "What if we found something to last longer?" 

Dean sets his hand on Sam's neck, strokes the skin covered by the long tangle of her hair, and asks, "How much longer?" 

Sam pulls back just enough to look at him. "How long would you want me like this?" 

"I -- Sam, you have to know that I -- that whatever shit -- that I love you whichever way," Dean says, and he feels flustered, saying it like that, saying it at all. "Whatever you want. Whatever you're comfortable with. And if you don't -- if you never wanna do it again, that's fine, too. You were right, fuck; I should've asked, I just didn't think you'd ever go for it." 

"We should see," Sam says, stops, bites her lower lip. "We should see if -- if there's one that needs a counter, instead of having a time limit -- or if there's -- maybe if there's something permanent?" 

She trails off there and Dean feels lightheaded at the thought. "Fuck," he says. 

Sam grins at him, that carefree criminal grin Dean taught her years ago even if her eyes are still glimmering with tears, and says, "We could, y'know. I mean, we're not done talking about this -- and you better fucking believe I'm gonna give you ten pieces of my mind soon enough -- but we only have three days. We should take advantage." 

"You aren't hurt?" Dean asks. "I saw how much that took out of you, Sam. Jesus, I can't believe you're -- if you need to -- if you need to sleep or take some painkillers or --" 

"I feel like I got run over by a fucking tractor," Sam says, cutting him off, "but at least sex would make it feel _good_. After that, though, you're going out to get food and I'm gonna take a bath because shit, I swear this gets worse every time, and then you're gonna sit down and listen to me while I yell and you are going to swear to me that you are never, _ever_ going to do something like this again without talking to me first. Understand?" 

Dean gives Sam a hesitant smile, one that grows deeper and more real when she doesn't do anything except roll her eyes at him. "Want me to pick up all your girly shit while I'm out?" he asks. "Bubbles and eighteen fucking bottles to line up on the counter and that weird lotion you like?" 

"I have a whole duffel full of clothes and make-up and 'girly shit,'" Sam says, "including that lotion I like, and you know it. What I want right now is for you to get naked and on the bed before I change my mind."

Dean doesn't usually take orders from his little sister -- but he does this time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still not sure I'm entirely satisfied with this but it's time to stop poking at it and just put it out there. So. *Hands*


End file.
